


Luck of the Draw

by ShannonPhillips



Series: A Little Less Attitude and a Little More Altitude [5]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanan and Hera play strip sabacc. Set four months after <em>A New Dawn</em>; originally written for the <a href="http://swr-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org">Star Wars Rebels kinkmeme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luck of the Draw

Space fever is real. Maps are patchy in the Outer Rim, and hyperspace routes scarce. Journeys can take anywhere from hours to days. And if you spend enough time alone in the black, you start to go a little bit crazy.  
  
Kanan and Hera have been pulling a series of long runs and they're both getting punchy. They _need_ to blow off some steam, as Kanan patiently and charmingly explained when Hera discovered his jury-rigged still in the engine room. Well, it's possible that his charm has worn a little thin. Voices were raised, ultimatums were made, challenges were thrown down and picked up. Now there's no more ship’s distillery but they are passing a tall mug of engine hooch back and forth while they kill time with a few rounds of sabacc. And somewhere along the way somebody (Kanan. It was Kanan) suggested "making things a little more interesting.”  
  
Kanan frowns at his hand. They’re good cards; it was a lucky draw. This won’t do at all. He glances over at Hera, who quickly drags her eyes back to his face and then looks away. Is he imagining that slightly darker flush of green on her cheeks?  
  
Aside from not quite being able to keep her eyes to herself, Hera’s relaxed and comfortable. She hasn’t lost much: just the gloves, her goggles, and her armored chestpiece. She looks a bit rumpled—her flight suit hangs loose around her waist and she’s unbuttoned the collar of her shirt—but she’s in no danger at all of being forced into an embarrassing position.  
  
Kanan, on the other hand, is half naked. His boots, kneepads, shoulder armor, gloves, shirt and undershirt have all been set aside in a tidy pile. She's seen him stripped down before—yet maybe there's a difference between stripped down and _stripping_. Hera’s eyes have gotten a little rounder with each loss.  
  
Kanan tosses his three best cards onto the discard pile and draws a collection of garbage instead. Perfect.  
  
He reaches out wordlessly; Hera hands over the mug. Her eyes slide down his bare chest again as her fingertips brush against his. He knocks back a slug of engine hooch—it burns like acid going down, but then spreads in a slow warmth throughout his whole body—and throws down his cards.  
  
Hera lays her own down with a flourish. Kanan lets his eyebrow climb. “You win again,” he says ruefully, and hands her back the mug. Hera takes a small, satisfied sip and hardly coughs at all this time.  
  
Kanan hooks a thumb under his belt and tugs it lower, rolling his hips a little. There’s definitely two spots of darker green on her cheeks. Maybe it’s the hooch. Maybe it’s something else. Kanan snaps open his belt and pulls it off with a smooth, languorous motion. It goes on the pile.  
  
“You’re the worst sabacc player I’ve ever seen,” Hera says. Her voice is fond, and threaded with something else too—something a little rough and husky.  
  
“I'm feeling lucky,” Kanan grins, and deals himself another losing hand.


End file.
